


Case 0841

by Wallums



Category: Original Work, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Ballet, France (Country), M/M, Miare City | Lumiose City, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 14:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20797769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallums/pseuds/Wallums
Summary: Quand il me prend dans ses brasIl me parle tout basJe vois...





	1. Somewhere in Kalos, a case file remains classified

Pierre St. Clair had always been a dancer. It came naturally to him, and he accepted it as it came- coordination, balance, and eventually, elegance. His family, too, accepted it. He was born to kalon bakers, owning a small bakery in a big city. Pierre was the youngest of four children. Not much was expected of him. All the expectation- all the responsibility- was placed on his siblings. **[REDACTED]** , **[REDACTED]** , and **[REDACTED]** were triplets, a real item, and nearly 7 years older than their younger brother. Typically, one would think that after 3 at once, a couple would declare that enough kids. But Pierre’s parents, years later, decided to round off to an even four. Usually, a fourth wheel improves function, but not in Pierre’s case. He slowed them down. He slowed the family down, being as different (and unexpected) as he was. 

Pierre had also always liked boys. This, too, came naturally to him, and just as naturally to his family. In fact, if anything was expected of the young Pierre, it was exactly that: he would like boys. And he did. Quite a lot. Bad boys, in particular. At first, ones who chewed too much gum and harassed the meowth in the Lumiose alleyways. But bad boys turned to worse boys. Boys who stole and smoked and didn’t drink their coffee with any milk or sugar. And worse boys turned to one extremely bad boy.

But he wasn’t quite there yet, and he wasn’t nearly Pierre. Not even close. He was called **[REDACTED]** , for that was the name he’d been given at birth. That was the name he’d carried with him through schooling; through his mornings at his classes, and then his afternoons in his dance lessons, and his evenings at the bakery. And this is how he grew.

He had a dancer’s body, strong and graceful. He was taller than the girls he danced with, because he had to be. It was almost as if he willed himself to that height. He was proud of his body, because he didn’t view it as his art; it was his tool, and he knew he could accomplish whatever he needed to with any tool, simply through his skill alone. He wore mostly dark, loose clothing: tank tops and jackets and dark jeans, never anything formal, and certainly nothing fancy. His hair, too, was dark, and long. It messily waved down to his chin, and he would put it up into the same dancer’s bun the girls did. He never paid much mind to his hair, anyways. It grew to a length, and then there it remained. His hair complemented his pale complexion well, as did his blue eyes.

Dancing was a form of expression for Pierre. Not that he wouldn’t express himself with words, of course. He would talk. He would tell people how he felt- teachers, parents, siblings. But everything came out messy. Not quite accurate- just falling short. In dance, however, when he was performing, everything came out just perfectly. His form was perfect; his intent was perfect. That all came in time, but when it did come, Pierre had talent. His talent, however, wasn’t necessarily always recognized, which plays into how **[REDACTED]** met the biggest art thief in the world, and how Pierre St. Clair came to be.  
  



	2. This file tells the story of an artist

The audition for the Lumiose Ballet School hadn’t gone as planned. And it was definitely planned. Pierre had spent the better part of 18 years readying himself for this audition. He’d honed his skills from birth. He was the best dancer he could be at that very moment. And then it went to shit. 

The **[REDACTED]** household was tense that morning.  **[REDACTED]** , **[REDACTED]** , and **[REDACTED]** were all rooting for him as they proofed the morning dough. Pierre’s mother would have kissed him, if it wouldn’t have smudged his foundation. Pierre’s father gave an approving nod from behind his morning coffee. The audition was at noon exactly, and Pierre knew he would punctually arrive an hour early. Exactly one hour early.

He hadn’t eaten the night before, as was usual before a big performance. It wasn’t healthy, but it was the culture. And it kept him looking trim and presentable. And he needed to present his best self now more than ever. 

When he arrived at the school, he took a deep breath and surveyed his surroundings, and the outside of the school. It was a classical Lumiose facade, very old and classical. It must’ve been a building that had gone through very little renovation. Not to say it was run-down (it seemed to be maintained just fine), it was just very classic. He’d seen it before, many times. He visited it often when he was younger. But it was different now, visiting with purpose, and the sight of it made the butterflies in his stomach fly in a completely different pattern. It was flanked on either side by a cafe, of course. They were everywhere in Lumiose. A popular place for battlers, but Pierre was not one of those. Across the street was a Center, as well as a small gallery.

When he stepped inside, it was different than he expected. For one, there were girls. Lots of girls. There wasn’t a single other man there, which surprised Pierre. He swore some of the most prolific alumni of the school were men. Male Ballerinas had a long history, and Pierre could name dozens of them off the top of his head. He studied every facet of their bodies on the posters he owned. He knew their every form, and he himself became one of them. So the disappointment he felt when no other men were auditioning for the school that day came heavily. 

Another difference he felt was the scale. The waiting room was tiny. Dozens of girls who had nothing to eat for a week stretched and fretted in quite the same way that Pierre did, and that closed in the space even more. The walls seemingly came for Pierre, shrinking around him. He felt a head rush, and had to sit down. He felt the butterflies in his stomach fly into his throat and into his mind, where they then crawled down his back. He remained in this panicked state for what felt like hours, but in reality was likely only a few minutes.

His name was called. He remembered that. The woman in the pencil skirt came in the room and called out for “**[REDACTED]** .” Pierre recognized his own name, for it was his name at the time. He stood and quickly regained his composure, the reality of the situation removing all opportunity for nerves, or any other feeling. All the pressure pressed everything else out, and there was no room for feeling or emotion. He had to prove himself now.

The audition room was also quite small, which was the second thing Pierre noticed about it. The first was that the audition panel comprised of only two people, a man and a woman. Both were quite prevalent people in the school who Pierre couldn’t name if he tried. He hurried onto the small stage and shuddered as he climbed the steps. 

“Name?” The woman didn’t bother looking up from her clipboard. 

“**[REDACTED]** ,” Pierre replied from the stage, and his voice must have been intriguing to the woman, because she looked up from whatever was so important on her clipboard for a moment. 

“I see…” She rifled through papers for a moment before coming up with the one she apparently needed. “_Monsieur_ **[REDACTED]**.” 

She leaned over to whisper something to the man that Pierre couldn’t hear over the pulse in his ears.

“Well then **[REDACTED]** , you may begin whenever,” The man spoke out finally, after having come to some sort of consensus with the woman.

Pierre began. He was auditioning with a routine he had been practicing for a long while. It was to a song that had been popular 25 years earlier that his teacher picked out for him. He didn’t know it before, but now he knows every single beat of it. He begins with a quick display of his positions. A jump from first, ending in second, a stretch to first again, into third, then fifth, then fourth. Nothing groundbreaking. But then as the music began to pick up pace, so did his feet. Everything else drowned out: every thought, every feeling. And he danced. The routine’s complexity grew and he became dedicated to it. He intuitively felt every single movement flow through him with extreme precision. Everything grew black, and he was alone, dancing. The beat slowly began to build, and he turned and leapt and stretched, and then it was over, and the color began to face back in. And he heard himself breathing once more.

“Thank you Monsieur **[REDACTED]** . You may go.” The woman’s voice rang flat when it hit Pierre’s ears. He looked surprised to hear this from her. 

“Did I— did I get in?”

“You will hear from us soon.  _ You may go _ .” She repeated the phrase, a little stronger, and it connected deeper with Pierre. Had he made a mistake? Why weren’t they telling him? Why was she acting like this.

His thoughts bounced around in his head as he was led out of the auditorium and back through the waiting room. Dozens of girls’ eyes looked at him expectantly, and he heaved a heavy breath and found his way out of the academy. He suddenly felt all the emotions he pushed back in preparation for that audition come back in a tidal wave. Fear, anxiety, and sadness flooded his senses. More questions piled on. Had he ruined it? Did he do bad? Why was she so cold? What had gone wrong?

Suddenly, he felt pressure behind his eyes, and they began to well with tears. Something was wrong, it had to be. He had done horribly, and now his entire future, everything he had prepared for, would be ruined. He leaned up against the brick of the building and slid down to the ground slowly. Pierre pulled his knees into his chest and hid his face. His long hair stuck to his forehead in the cold, damp air. He took sharp, short breaths and cried for as long as he could manage.

“Hello?” Pierre heard a deep voice from above him, speaking Unovan. He looked up and saw a man taking a drag off a cigarette. Pierre wiped away his eyes and brushed his hair back behind his ear for a better look. 

Above Pierre stood a gorgeous man with dark skin and a full, gorgeous beard. His face was handsome and chiseled, and looked fairly young. He had short, dark hair that faded from the sides of his head. He was the most attractive man Pierre had ever seen. 

“Oh, uh… bonjour.” Pierre felt embarrassed to be seen here by a man like this. He was an absolute mess.

“Are you alright?” The man spoke again, and Pierre heard his accent, placing it as Galarian. The man’s eyes held genuine concern, as well as intrigue.

“Oh, I am… okay.” Pierre’s Unovan was lacking, as he hadn’t had much opportunity to speak it outside his basic schooling. He sometimes had to talk with the tourists who visited the bakery, so he could carry a simple conversation, but he feared he’d be unable to explain himself. 

“Alright, I was just making sure.” The man idled long beyond his words, scanning Pierre up and down. He seemed to be analyzing his face in particular. They shared a moment of silence together, before the man extended a hand. “You look like you could use some cheering up.” It was an invitation.

Pierre weighed the outcomes of this situation in his head. 

One: This man was a murderer. This one didn’t seem likely to him, because this man was simply too beautiful to be a murderer. There are some beautiful murderers, of course, but none as beautiful as this man. And even, on the off chance this man was a murderer, would getting murdered by him really be  _ all that _ horrible? Pierre just ruined any chance he had of a future anyways, and maybe being murdered by a man so gorgeous and charming could be delightful. This thought leads his mind to…

Two: This man wants to hook up with Pierre. This one also doesn’t seem likely to Pierre. This gorgeous man finds a mess of a person on the street and his mind immediately goes to hooking up. It just doesn’t happen to a person who fails their ballet auditions and has a breakdown on the street.

Finally, three: This man buys Pierre a galette and they call it a night, going their own separate ways. Pierre finds a way to be okay, and remembers the kindness this stranger did to him fondly. This one seems the most likely, but Pierre carefully considers his options for a few beats before sighing and…

“Okay.” Pierre reaches for the hand and pulls himself up, ready for whatever may happen next.


	3. and the piece of art he fell in love with

Pierre followed the man wordlessly up the stairs into the apartment. The silence spoke volumes between the two of them. Pierre was sad, and the man was going to fix that. That was the wordless plan that had been mutually established. And that would, in turn, be the plan for the next year or so of their lives.

The man’s apartment was a single room, but it was a large single room. Its industrial/minimalist style looked great against the Lumiose view out the large window opposite the entrance. Pierre noted the window’s gorgeous gold frame, which seemed to capture the city within it. Lumiose Tower shone brightly tonight; it could practically light the entire apartment from where it was. Smaller in the window, directly across the street, was a view of the dance school, and that made Pierre sick to his stomach.

There was a large bed against one wall, and a small tv set against the other, with a couch. In one corner was a small kitchen, with a stove, an oven, a fridge, and a sink. He presumed the man didn’t do much cooking, as there wasn’t even a table. Just the hardwood floors that the man’s shoes clicked against as he walked over to the kitchen. Sitting on a countertop was an opened bottle of red wine, and two wine glasses, one empty, and one already poured.

“Wine?” The man offered, if it wasn’t obvious. And, it was less of an offer, and more of a statement. ‘I will pour you wine now.’ Pierre got the feeling he didn’t have the choice, not that he would have denied if he did.

“Uh- yes. Merci,” Pierre nodded only slightly as the man was already pouring. The rich red poured from the bottle and into the glass.

“Cabernet, Bordeaux. _Tres classique_.” The man winked as he handed Pierre the glass.

Pierre took the glass carefully and almost immediately took a sip, but stopped himself. “I— ah. _Merci._ Uh… _Parlez-vous français_?” He asked the question hopefully. His Unovan wasn’t the best, and he hoped to be able to communicate in his native tongue.

“Well… no. Not exactly.” This response sparked disappointment in Pierre. “But I am learning. You see, I moved here for. Oh, say… business. Just recently. I bought this space and started my gallery, and I’m just trying to set up for expansion.”

Pierre nodded. He followed that to some degree, his mind was just elsewhere. He finally took a sip of his wine, and his let it rest on his tongue a moment before swallowing and taking a deep breath in to chase it. It was dry, he knew that much. Bitter. Most wine tasted the same to him. He was more of a coffee person anyways. “I… do not know much about wine.” It wasn’t something he was going to keep secret.

The man cocked a crooked smirk, “You’re from Lumiose City and you don’t know much about wine.”

Pierre shook his head.

“That’s fine then.” The man lifted up his glass. “This one is good.”

“I suppose I must believe you.” Pierre took another sip. He was right, it was good.

The man chuckled. It was a deep chuckle, and excessively attractive. “You’re funny. I never got your name?”

“**[REDACTED]**.”

“**[REDACTED]**_,_” the man repeated. It sounded different with his Galarian accent. Like a different name entirely

“And yours?” Pierre asked curiously.

“Marcus. Marcus Monaé.”

“I like that name.”

“Thank you. I like yours,” Marcus smirked again, and Pierre felt his heart flutter. The room was already charged with tension, and it only grew when Marcus said, “You’re gorgeous.”

It was a simple phrase, but it sent Pierre’s heart reeling. “Oh… thank you,” was all he could muster.

“You’re like a painting. Your features are so beautiful.” Marcus stared at Pierre from across the kitchen counter, still more analytical than romantic.

“Thank you…” This wasn’t necessarily news to Pierre. He had beautiful, delicate features, of course, and he’d always been told as such. But it sounded different coming from Marcus, much more informed.

Marcus finished his glass of wine and sighed, “It’s quite late. You’re free to stay the night.” He was right. It was already dark when Marcus found Pierre, and the night had only gotten darker.

“Oh, I am not sure if I should…” Pierre thought about it, and he _really_ wanted to, but he considered his family waiting for him back home.

“I’d like you to,” Marcus almost purred when he spoke, and that was enough to convince Pierre.

“I could… stay… yes.”

“Perfect.”

And so they had their first night of many together, and they talked and drank and got to know each other, and it was the night Pierre first began to fall in love with Marcus. Every word he spoke dug deep into Pierre’s heart, deeper than even he’d gone before. Something about Marcus was so intoxicating, and Pierre wanted so much more.


	4. This file catalogues the love they held for each other

The next morning, the pair sat a small table in an intimate, crowded café and sipped warm espresso. It tasted bitter and nutty, but it made them feel warm inside, like how one feels when they look at someone they love. Music played over the dull murmur of the cafe- intellectuals speaking their native tongue, cups and saucers clinking against each other in a mechanical rhythm, espresso machines sizzling away being counters. It was wintertime, and a light snow had fallen that night. The streets outside were powdered with fresh morning snow, and it glistened with the midmorning sun. It was gorgeous, but Pierre couldn’t take his eyes off of Marcus.

Marcus noticed, and smirked. “What?”

“You are gorgeous,” Pierre said it low and quite quiet, but Marcus could hear just fine in the intimacy of the moment.

Marcus smiled widely, maintaining eye contact. “Thank you.” He said it like it wasn’t necessarily news to him, but the action of Pierre saying it meant more than the words themselves.

Pierre began to dance his fingers across the table to where Marcus’s hand rested. “Last night…”

“Was great,” Marcus nodded and moved his hand to pick up his cup of espresso. He brought it to his lips and paused a moment, like he was taking in a little bit more of Pierre in the daylight, and then he took another sip.

“Yes. Very.” Pierre’s voice held whimsy- a dreamlike appreciation for everything Marcus was. “So. _Monsieur Monae_. You like art?”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“You moved here for art?” Pierre raised an eyebrow

“Absolutely,” Marcus laughed.

“Why do you love art so much?”

“Hm.” Marcus thought. “It’s so very to explain. It’s… something that a person can see themselves in. A reflection of their innermost self. Someone can paint something they find or something they see. And then you can look at it. And… it can be like looking in a mirror. It’s incredibly powerful.”

Pierre nodded pensively in response. “I… think I understand.”

“Well… take for example… who is your favorite painter?” Marcus glances over Pierre briefly.

“I like… Renoir I suppose.” Pierre confirmed his answer with another nod.

“Renoir? Heavens— why? Pierre-Auguste Renoir was a hack. His art had no substance. There was no thought behind his technique or message. His compositions were nothing new, and his whimsical use of light and color betrayed everything the contemporary art scene was trying to achieve. What ever could you like about Renoir?” Marcus tilted his head towards Pierre, awaiting a valid answer.

“Well… I suppose his works are just very… pretty.”

“Pretty?”

“Isn’t that what art is for? Looking nice?”

“Well I suppose, but his contemporaries were doing new things. Evolving the medium. They had something to say.”

“Well maybe I’d like his contemporaries more if they said nothing and looked pretty.” Pierre smiled, satisfied with his suggestion.

“I suppose…” Marcus looked off to his side in consideration. “It’s a very French name.”

“Renoir?”

“Pierre-Auguste Renoir. When I came here I expected every boy to be named Pierre or Auguste or Jaques. But you… [**REDACTED**]."

“Is [**REDACTED**] a very French name?” Pierre asked.

“I hadn’t thought about it.” Marcus quieted as the music over them shifted from a classical composition to a melodic vocal piece. “Hm. I’ve heard this before. I quite like it.”

Pierre nodded in response. “It is popular. Can you tell what she’s saying?”

“It’s too quiet for me to tell.” Marcus strained to listen.

“I will translate.” Pierre taped his finger on-beat and waited for the first chorus.

The soft piano behind the vocals chimed and strings began to rise with the singer.

_-Quand il me prend dans ses bras_

“When he takes me into his arms”

_-Il me parle l'a tout bas_

“He speaks to me softly”

_-Je vois la vie en rose_

“And I see the life in… I see life in rose? Is that correct? I do not believe that is correct.”

“Life in rose…” Marcus repeated. “Maybe... pink?"

"Pink?"

"Pink, you know. The color of love. Maybe she's saying that every moment she spends with her love, she sees life through a more romantic lens."

“That’s beautiful...” Pierre seemed awestruck at Marcus in the moment.

“It’s art.”

The song continued behind the two of them, and they sat in silence appreciating it, and appreciating each other. And then the song trickled out, and the silence continued, and Pierre realized it wasn’t entirely from appreciation. They truly had nothing to discuss. Pierre knew many things he wanted to say, but he didn’t know a way to put them into Unovan words. He hoped Marcus felt the same way.

And then he got his answer. “Well, [**REDACTED**], I suppose I should be going now. Plans tonight, and all. It was very lovely meeting you, and I again, sorry about that awful audition.”

And then Pierre remembered the Audition, and how it went. And how he spent the night at a strange man’s apartment and how his family was waiting for him back home on the other side of the City. And he sprung to action. “It was very lovely, yes. I hope we can do this again.”


	5. and how they made each other feel

“[**REDACTED**]- heavens! Where were you?” Those were the first words Pierre heard when his mother opened the door to the small building that housed Pierre, his family, and 200 loaves of fresh bread every morning. “I was worried sick! We all were!”

“I know, mama.” Pierre took the time to let himself in, pushing past his mother, through the small shop, and into the small kitchen. It smelled like bread and the labor of the morning hours. Then again, it always smelled like that. His siblings stood expectantly, no doubt the source of many of the smells. _Tomber de Charybde en Scylla. _He knew he’d have to explain himself to someone.

“[**REDACTED**], Where were you?” Asked [**REDACTED**], the tallest triplet.

“[**REDACTED**], Why didn’t you come home?” Asked [**REDACTED**], the shortest triplet.

“[**REDACTED**], How did you not think to call us?” Asked [**REDACTED**], the boy.

“I failed the audition,” Pierre avoided the question. He knew he’d have to explain himself to someone, he just didn’t feel like it now.

“What?” Asked one of them, Pierre wasn’t looking. He was now walking past them.

“You failed the audition?” Asked a different one.

“You can’t fail an audition. There isn’t a set objective,” the last said. 

“I. Failed. The. Audition.” Pierre repeated himself. Technically he did not. Technically he wouldn’t know the results for another few days. But he knew it went poorly. He remembered the looks in their eyes. He remembered how everything shut off within him. And the memories made his stomach sick again. And then he thought about Marcus, and that made his stomach sick in an entirely different way.

Pierre’s father, the last of his family, found himself in the kitchen, coming down the stairs from the living quarters. “[**REDACTED**]! Where were you?”

“He failed the audition,” [**REDACTED**] answered for him.

“He failed the audition?” Pierre’s Father seemed confused by this information. “Can you fail an audition? How do you know?”

“I just know.” Pierre began to express frustration at his family’s extensive lack of ‘getting it’.

“[**REDACTED**]!” Called his mother from the shop. “Someone is here to see you.”

The look of expectation quickly came across everyone’s face again as Pierre stood in the middle of his family. He ducked his head and ran out of the kitchen quickly, probably also smelling like bread and the result of a morning’s labor.

Standing in the shop’s doorframe, there he saw Marcus Monáe, holding a leather satchel that Pierre carried everywhere. A leather satchel he must have forgotten at Marcus’ apartment.

The moment of silence between the two deafened the rest of the family, and they all stopped to read the situation. The triplets watched from the open door to the kitchen, and Pierre’s mother stood closely by Marcus.

Marcus himself didn’t crack. It appeared he didn’t ever crack. He was immaculate. He stood, completely stone-faced, in Pierre’s doorway. “You forgot this.” He held out the bag to Pierre.

Pierre crossed the small space quickly and grabbed Marcus by the sleeve, leading him back out the door and into the cobbled streets in front of the bakery. “How did you find me?”

“Your papers were in your bag.” Marcus lifted up the flap, revealing audition forms filled out to completion, address clearly written.

“Well— why did you come here?” Pierre was still frustrated, and he didn’t entirely make sense.

“I thought you might need your bag.” Marcus smirked down at Pierre, obviously finding the frustration endearing.

“Well— I— well,” Pierre sputtered, looking for the words to be upset. But he didn’t find any. “Well. _Merci_. Thank you, I suppose.” He took the leather bag and laid it over his shoulder.

Marcus continued smirking, “It was really no problem. Super quick trip. And— well. I realized I didn’t have any way to contact you, so I left you my number in that bag.”

Pierre nodded. “Thank you.” He started to turn, almost completely at a loss for words, but then he found just a few. “I really did enjoy it.”

Marcus nodded, probably in agreement. “I’ll call you, [**REDACTED**].”

“I’d like that.” Pierre glanced back briefly at Marcus, before stepping back inside the bakery, where his saw the triplets waiting for him, ready to interrogate.

“Who was that?”

“What was his name?”

“How do you know him?"

“Marcus.” Pierre, satisfied with his answer, nodded and went upstairs.


End file.
